


Put It In the History Books

by Plenoptic



Category: Dragon Age Inquisition - Fandom
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times, Iron Bull apologizes. Four times, Dorian forgives him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put It In the History Books

The first time, it’s a little grudging.

The Iron Bull didn’t even mean for it to come out as biting as it did, but come on, the guy can’t take a joke. It’s such a little thing, too—just a jab about leaving one’s country behind just for the sake of fucking assholes. As in the act of fucking an actual asshole, Bull clarifies, not  _fucking assholes_  as a compound noun to describe literally everyone in Tevinter. 

And the ‘Vint stiffens at that, frowns. “I know what you  _meant_ , you ridiculous beast.” He picks up the pace to catch up to Sera, who is cackling a little ways ahead.

 The Inquisitor hooks a hand in Bull’s harness and pulls him back, explains in barely measured tones that Dorian does not just like men, he  _likes_  men.

“So?” Bull says, arching a brow. “Every other guy in Tevinter is grabbing a little ass on the side.”

The Inquisitor sighs, brows furrowing. No, Dorian  _likes_  men. As in seeks relationships with other men that go beyond fucking in backrooms of seedy taverns, beyond stolen orgasms in secret brothels. As in, had to hightail it out of Tevinter because his old man was going to try and blood magic the ‘quirkiness’ right out of him.

And then, yeah—the Bull feels like a bit of an asshole himself.

He tracks down the mage in camp that night, finds him stoking the campfire with kindling and small twigs because his mana is nearly wiped and the lyrium potion he chugged hasn’t quite done its thing yet. Bull doesn’t sit, even though the space beside the ‘Vint is empty and no one else is around. The Inquisitor is occupying Sera, trying to keep her from dropping a jar of bees on a requisitions officer that had been more than a little snippy that morning.

“Hey,” Bull says, and the mage looks up at him. Scowls, looks back at the fire. Eh, that’s fair. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for that crack earlier. Wasn’t very sensitive of me.”

“No, it wasn’t,” the ‘Vint retorts. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth and doesn’t offer up anything more.

Bull sighs. “I was an ass. Sometimes I forget, you know—the differences between…” He gestures back and forth between them, somewhat helplessly. A Tevinter magister—nope, just a mage, sometimes he forgets that too—and a newly made Tal-Vashoth. “Under the Qun, you know—no real romantic relationships. Not sexual ones, anyway.”

The mage looks at him. Cautious. “Qunari romances don’t involve sex?”

“Maybe some do.” Bull shrugs. “Tamassrans usually take care of the sex.”

“You have sex all the time. You can’t tell me that every barmaid who’s ever hopped into your lap was actually a Tamassran in disguise.”

Bull chuckles. “Yeah, well. I’ve been away from the Qun a long time. I like the way southern folks do things.”

The ‘Vint huffs and stokes the fire with just a little whisper of magic. Sort of pretty, really. The magic, that is. Well, the ‘Vint too. But the Iron Bull finds he doesn’t mind the magic the Inquisitor’s mages use, and he likes not feeling so afraid of it anymore. “Yes, the south is rather charming that way. Is that all, then, Iron Bull?”

“Yeah. It is. You forgive me?” 

“I suppose I can overlook your oafish transgressions just this once.”

The Bull chuckles. “Thanks. You can let me know when I piss you off.”

The ‘Vint purses his lips. Attractive lips—this isn’t the first time Bull has noticed, but this is the first time he lets his gaze linger. “Believe me, I shall.”

 

* * *

 

The second time—fuck. He still hates rifts.

A lot, a lot, a  _lot_  does Bull hate rifts. The fighting is great, the axing down demons and mean shit is  _great_ , but he hates the rifts themselves. Big, unnatural fucking holes in the sky, twisting up the air,  _throbbing_  like heartbeats, spitting out demonic crap all over pretty southern countrysides. Damn. People don’t deserve to worry about terrors every time they go out to collect the kids from the fields. Bull is happy to whack demons to keep the little guys safe.

But by Koslun’s big blue left testicle does he hate rifts. 

This one is pretty nasty. Nestled in a gully by a waterfall, a short distance from the farmlands where they picked up Dennet some time ago. And the problem this time is despair demons, which Bull hates even more than he hates the pride variety, because they’re fast fuckers, because they make that awful screaming sound, because they just make everything so  _cold_.

And because something out there in the Fade must really hate them—oh yeah, probably Corypheus’s fucking  _archdemon_ —there are two that fall out of this rift. The Inquisitor and Sera chase down one, leaving Bull and the ‘Vint to tackle the other. Pavus is good to have against a despair demon; he can cast those wicked spells from just about any distance, and he’s good with fire magic. Bull’s pretty pleased to have the ‘Vint at his back, for maybe the first time ever. Someone should make a note of this, he thinks, put it in the history books.

The despair demon—which has done its spooky quick-teleport thing some fifty feet away—raises its hands and makes that awful  _shriek_ , and every hair on Bull’s not inconsiderable body stands on end. He doesn’t so think, he just  _does_ —he throws himself to the left, out of harm’s way, without even pausing to consider that Pavus is behind him, and he hears a litany of Tevene swears as the mage has to throw up a last-second barrier to keep from being frozen on the spot.

Bull shakes himself, kicks at the fear clinging to the edges of his nerves, and closes the distance between himself and the demon with a roar and a swing of his axe. Sera and the Inquisitor join him, and together with Pavus’s slung fireballs, they take the thing down. It’s a relief, a greater relief than Bull has ever known, when it disintegrates into so much ash.

The Inquisitor closes the rift and sets about looting the ash piles left behind; Sera helps with enthusiasm. The adrenaline starting to wear off, the imminent threat of death by demon fading, Bull pauses to take stock of what he’d done—dodged a demon’s attack and put a comrade in harm’s way. Fuck.

He turns and finds the mage heading toward him. Pavus doesn’t look like himself—he looks more than a little harried, eyes wide, meticulously groomed hair now slipping loose of its neat coif and hanging in his eyes, and his kohl is smudged because at some point he lost his footing and fell in the river.

“Hey.” Bull sheathes his axe and meets him halfway. “Hey, fuck, I don’t know what—”

“Did it get you?” the ‘Vint snaps, and Bull blinks, taken aback.

“What?" 

“The despair demon, its ice—did it get you?”

“Uh—no, because I—because I jumped out of the way. Look, I’m sorry about that, I didn’t mean to put you in the line of fire.”

Pavus quirks his head. “Oh. Well. I daresay my barriers are more than strong enough to fend off a little  _cold_ , Iron Bull. Though it’s not like you to hesitate on the field.”

Bull does hesitate then, though—because he’s got the wild, absurd urge to confide in this ‘Vint, to tell him how much he  _hates_  these rifts, how he hates feeling so weak and vulnerable in the face of forces he can’t even begin to comprehend. “Yeah. I know. Got a bit in my head there for a minute.” The mage has a buckle that’s coming undone across his shoulder; Bull reaches for him and snaps it back into place, and Pavus jumps. “Thanks for the concern.” And then, because it’s about time they quit acting like one is about to stick a dagger in the other’s ribs, Bull adds, “Dorian.”

The ‘Vint arches a brow. “You’re welcome, I suppose. Do be more careful in the future.” He steps around a man who could have once been his nemesis to join the Inquisitor, but then, over his shoulder—“Bull.”

 

* * *

 

 And then the third goes a little something like:

“—and as you gripped my horns, I would  _conquer you_.”

 Affronted, right away—that’s the only way to describe the look on Dorian’s face. “Um... What?”

“Oh. Was that—not where we're going?” 

"No. It was very much  _not_.”

Dorian stalks off, taking the lead this time, because the Inquisitor is hanging back with Cole, discussing the differences between human and spirit understandings of—whatever, leaves or something. Bull stares at Dorian’s retreating back, at the unhappy curl of his shoulders and the white-knuckled grip he’s got on his staff, and realizes that this time, he can’t let it hang between them all day.

“Hey.” He breaks into a hustle, and it’s hell on his knee, so he’s thankful when Dorian stops, heaves a sigh, turns to look at him. “Hey, hey.”

 “What?” Dorian snaps, and once Bull is caught up, he turns away and resumes walking.

“Could you slow down for a second?”

“Could  _you_?”

Okay, he deserves that. Bull isn’t used to hurrying to keep up with humans—they’ve got comparatively small legs, after all—but Dorian seems determined to light the ground at his heels on fire, pace he’s going. Bull might be happy to let him walk it off, but his knee is  _really_  hurting, so he thrusts out a hand and catches Dorian’s sturdy shoulder.

“Look, sorry, okay? I really misread that one.” 

“You think?” Dorian shoots back, and Bull is surprised by the genuine hurt on his handsome features.

“Yeah, I do,” he says, careful, not rising. Dorian is wounded, not pissed. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been—trying to get on your level. For a while now.”

“You think being ravaged by some Qunari brute is  _my level_?”

“I mean, if that’s what you’re into. And it doesn’t seem like it is,” Bull adds quickly, when Dorian visibly prickles. “So, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I misread you a  _lot_. Which is not a common thing for me—”

“Ben-Hassrath and all,” Dorian says with him, and his smile is a little rueful. “Why?”

“Well, I’ve been trained to—” 

“No, I mean—why have you been trying to… get on ‘my level,’ as you put it.”

 “Oh. That.” Bull laughs and shrugs. “Because I think you’re hot, and I’d like to take you to bed sometime.”

And that—oh, isn’t that pretty. Dorian’s cheeks and nose and ears all turn scarlet, and he looks away pointedly, like tilting his face the other direction will keep Bull from seeing how obviously flustered he is. Yeah, he’s cute. Bull likes him, maybe a touch more than he cares to admit.

“Well, I am a fine specimen,” Dorian huffs, lifting a hand to smooth his perfectly coiffed hair, and Bull snorts. “I don’t blame you for succumbing to my charms. But I wouldn’t think poncy ‘Vints were to your tastes, to be quite honest.” 

“Usually, they’re not.”

“And yet—highly inappropriate comments about horn-holding and conquering.” 

“Yep. Guess you’re just special.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. Pretty eyes, eyes the color of a storm. “Lucky me.”

“Yeah.” Bull offers him a grin and winks—actually just opens and then closes his one eye, and Dorian groans. “Lucky you.”

 

* * *

 

 “Oh— _oh! Kaffas!_  Bull—” 

Bull stops, just two knuckles deep, and blinks. “Too much?”

“Yes, I—”

“Oh, damn, sorry—” The fourth, but it doesn’t register, he’s a little too concerned about the beautiful mage he’s finally managed to coax into his bed.

“No,” Dorian gasps, reaching around and grabbing Bull’s wrist, keeping those fingers just stretching his rim. “It’s quite alright, just—your two fingers are probably the equal of most human men’s cocks, and it’s—admittedly, it’s been awhile.”

The tense line of Bull’s mouth eases into a cautious smile, and he runs his other hand—the other hand not currently impaling Dorian’s ass—over the pretty curve of the other man’s lower back. Dorian looks so good on his knees, legs spread wide, chest pressed to the bed, ass up in the air for Bull to appraise and fuck. Bull rocks the very tips of his fingers, testing, and Dorian whimpers, pressing his face into the pillows. 

“Mm. Don’t think you’re relaxed enough. How many glasses of wine did you have?” 

“Just the two, same as you. I’m not actually interested in having sex while utterly inebriated.”

“Good.” He slips his fingers free and strokes a hand over Dorian’s hole, fingering his entrance but not penetrating again. “You want me to eat you out a little, help you get there?”

“Is that—” Panting lightly, Dorian turns his face on the pillow, looks at the Bull through eyes clouded with arousal. Bull’s cock jerks where it rests hard and heavy in the crease of his thigh. “You don’t—mind?” 

“Mind?” Bull grins, stroking gentle fingertips over Dorian’s hole again just to coax that sweet little sound from the mage’s pretty mouth. “I love eating ass. Especially asses like yours.” He leans in and bites it to make his point, just a little nip, but it has Dorian gasping quietly. “Spread wide for me, begging for my mouth. Bet you taste fantastic.”

“Oh.” Dorian’s cheeks turn scarlet, and it’s much prettier when he’s excited and flattered, rather than furious. “Well, then. By all means.”

Bull chuckles and leans in, spreading Dorian’s ample cheeks with gentle hands, and licks a line from his balls to his hole, feels the smaller man tremble beneath him. The sounds Dorian makes when Bull sweeps the flat of his tongue over his hole are pure, wordless poetry. He picks up little moans that sound like “Oh” and “Bull” and “Yes,” and when they’re muffled, he lifts his gaze to find that Dorian has slid two fingers into his mouth and is sucking on them with urgency, his other hand drifting toward his cock.

“Hey, come on now,” Bull chides, biting at the ring of quivering muscle and relishing Dorian’s pitched moan, “don’t go too fast, gorgeous. I wanna get you there three times tonight.”

Dorian laughs, a breathless, easy sound, and something about it makes Bull’s chest tighten. “Three? My, you  _are_  an ambitious one, the Iron Bull.”

“Three at  _least_.”

“ _Well._ ” Dorian rests his head against his forearms and looks over his shoulder, offering Bull a sultry smile that has his balls tightening against his cock. “By all means…”

 

* * *

 

The fifth time—he really means it. Not that he didn’t mean it before, but his apology this time is desperate, scrabbling—an attempt to save what they have.

They’re fucking. Although the time has long since passed when ‘fucking’ was just ‘fucking’ for them. Some nights they don’t fuck at all. Some nights they just lay entwined on the bed, Bull’s or Dorian’s, doesn’t matter, and just kiss slowly and languidly, enjoy one another’s mouths and the sensation of hands on bodies with no real intent, no ulterior purpose or end goal, just touching for touch’s sake. They feel so good, Dorian’s hands on him, especially when they’re a little warmed by magic, trailing down his sides, mapping old scars, gripping his hips and thighs, massaging his bad knee.

Some nights Dorian reads to him—not that Bull can’t read, never mind Dorian’s jabs at the illiteracy of Qunari brutes—but because he likes to hear Dorian’s soft, dulcet voice shaping stories, the way Dorian’s soft hair feels beneath caressing fingertips, the way his accent becomes more pronounced as he gets tired. 

Some nights they laze away in the bath and Bull washes Dorian from head to toe, lathers him up in the all the oils and lotions and fragrant soaps he likes so much, turns Dorian to a purring, happy mess in his arms, and musses Dorian’s sudsy hair into amusing shapes while the mage is too blissed-out and relaxed to fuss at him for it.

But tonight they’re fucking, and it’s not just fucking. It’s the fourth time that night, actually—they went twice when they got home to Skyhold, once hard, to get the fear and adrenaline of battle out of their blood, and then a little more gently, to affirm that they were alive, present, well after all. Then dozed for two hours, woke up when the sun was just setting and went once more—actually Dorian fucked him then, because they’d only recently learned that it’s really exceptionally good for both of them. Dorian’s got a great cock, sufficiently big by human standards, long and thick enough that it’s like  _magic_  when he hilts himself in his lover's ass and rides the bull in a whole new way.

And after that, stinking of sex and sweat, they’d eaten the little tray of food they’d brought up earlier and then forgotten about, and then really had made an earnest attempt at sleep. But at some point in the middle of the night—maybe some time after midnight—Bull had woken and realized in moments that Dorian was up, too. He felt the mage’s hands on his face, tracing the lines of his cheeks, his jaw, chin, down his neck and across his collar, smoothing across his shoulders. A mouth found his in the dark, cautious, and they kissed for a long time before Dorian straddled his hips. Bull sat up against the headboard and pulled Dorian in closer, kissed him again, slipped a hand down his ass and found his hole still wet with oil and come, gotten hard in mere moments and pushed inside him again— 

And here they are, fucking, Dorian’s arms around his neck, foreheads pressed together, mouths so close he can taste the way Dorian pants and whimpers and pleads for him. Bull’s got a hundred dirty things on the tip of his tongue— _yeah, just like that, you like it huh, why don’t you come for me baby, my pretty mage, I want to feel you come on my cock—_ but Dorian’s tongue strokes his, all soft and tender, and something about those words feels like an invasion tonight. Instead Bull holds him close and rocks up into him, sets a pace that is slow and unhurried, not so much thrusting as moving up to meet Dorian when he comes down.

“Oh,” Dorian breathes, his arms tightening, “oh… _amatus_ …I’m…”

“Yeah,” Bull says, gasps it into Dorian’s ear, tastes the warm gold of piercings beneath his lips, “Yeah,  _kadan_ , that’s it…I’ve got you, sweetheart…”

Dorian keens—some combination of soft endearments and Bull rocking up and holding steady inside him does the trick—and comes with a hard gasp, pressing his cheek against Bull’s and grunting as he rides out his orgasm. Bull starts thrusting a little more urgently before his lover has quite come down, using the tightness of Dorian’s clenching body to milk out his own climax, biting at the side of Dorian’s neck when he tips his head back and moans. 

“Fuck,” Bull mumbles, shaking on the tail end of it, pulling Dorian close to glance kisses off his panting mouth, “you’re so beautiful, so good to me,  _kadan_ , fuck, I love you so—”

Dorian stiffens.

Bull almost bites his tongue. “Oh. Oh, no. Oh, I—” Fuck, he’s done it now, finally pushed too hard—Dorian has fielded insults and gone up against demons and been brought to his limits but this—this he’s never done, this is what Bull never wanted for him, this pressure, this expectation—he’s pushed too hard and now Dorian will—

“Don’t you dare.” Dorian’s voice is low, broken, and Bull’s heart twists, and his heart  _is_  Dorian, but it’s okay if Dorian isn’t ready to settle in behind his ribs. It’s okay if he’s  _never_  ready, Bull just—doesn’t want this to end.

“Yeah. No. You’re right. I’m sorry, I—" 

“Don’t you  _dare!_ ” Dorian looks up at him, and Bull jumps when one of the torches roars to life—he’ll never get used to that. But by the firelight he can see, and Dorian has  _tears_  in his eyes, his lower lip trembling, more visibly upset than Bull has ever seen him, and it shakes him to his  _core_. “Don’t you  _dare_  say something like that and then—you can’t—you can’t say that and then take it back!”

Bull stares at him. Dorian sniffles and lowers his chin, releasing his grip on Bull’s neck to scrub a furious hand across his eyes. 

“Oh,” Bull says softly, hardly daring to—does he even dare believe? “Oh. Oh,  _Dorian_. No. Of course I’m not taking it back.  _Kadan_ —I love you.” He cradles the mage’s face in his hands, lifts his chin, groans at the cascade of tears on his cheeks. “Hey. Dorian. I  _love_  you.”

Dorian sobs, presses a hand over his eyes, and Bull croons and pulls him into his arms, cradles Dorian’s head between his neck and shoulder and strokes his hair, his back, squeezes his ass and pulls him closer, until they are nothing but skin on skin, sharing heat and space. Dorian’s long limbs wrap around him, arms sliding beneath his to wrap up around his shoulders, and Bull laces his fingers together against the middle of Dorian’s back.

"I thought..." Dorian pauses, hiccups quietly. Probably hasn't cried this hard in a long time. Bull kisses his temple. "I thought there was no romance under the Qun."

Bull grunts. "Not under the Qun anymore." And then he chuckles, squeezes Dorian a little closer. "Wouldn't care even if I was."

"Oh, Bull." Dorian sniffles. “I love you, too. I do.”

Bull smiles, presses kisses to his lover’s bare shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yes. You fool. How could I not?”

“Aw.” Bull can’t smother a grin—the tightness in his chest has released, expanded and popped like a bubble, and all that remains is warmth and safety that is so uniquely Dorian. “Thanks, big guy.”

 “Oh, hush,” Dorian mumbles. No bite to it. None whatsoever. His hands on Bull’s shoulders are gentle, caressing. Just a little hint of magic on his fingertips. Bull adores him for it. “You…love me.” And there’s just enough of a question in that, just enough fear, that Bull’s heart breaks all over again.

“That I do,  _kadan_.” Bull turns his head a little, just enough that he can press a kiss to Dorian’s cheek. Runs his hands over Dorian’s body. Feels the weight and heat of something dear and precious and loved in his arms and thinks that he’s never going to let it go. “That I do.”

 

 


End file.
